


The Great American Novelist

by Mums_the_Word



Category: White Collar
Genre: Anger, Gen, Heroism, Suspicion, fanfiction parody, perfect crimes, vindication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:10:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal has almost forgotten how really good he was at committing crimes. That revelation has unforeseen consequences and may result in Peter sending him back to prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mozzie Gets a Hobby

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Treon for her helpful suggestions.

     Neal returned to his loft after an abbreviated workday at White Collar. There had been some kind of glitch with the computer system that IT was doggedly trying to remedy. They were having limited success apparently, if the swear words were any indication. Since it was already after 2 o’clock in the afternoon, Peter reluctantly sent his team home for the day. Neal was not surprised to find Mozzie in his personal space, making himself at home with a wine glass in hand. He was slouched across the couch, glasses perched atop his baldhead, and his nose perilously close to an IPad screen. Neal’s cohort was so absorbed in whatever was on that screen that he failed to hear Neal enter the apartment.

     “Whacha reading, Moz?” Neal asked, as he tried to peer over Mozzie’s shoulder.

     The little man startled, and his body spontaneously shot up at least a foot.

     “Don’t _do_ that, Neal! Do you want to give me a myocardial infarction?”

     Neal produced a wry smile and promised to be more careful with the status of his friend’s heart health in the future. Although Mozzie appeared unusually edgy, Neal was justifiably reluctant to push the issue of the paranoid little man’s reading material. It might be yet another conspiracy theory espoused by some nutcase on the Web, and then Neal would have to endure hours of Mozzie’s rhetoric on the merits of it. Such instances had occurred more frequently than Neal liked to remember.

     But now Mozzie suddenly looked squirrely, almost embarrassed, and that had Neal intrigued. He cocked an eyebrow and asked suspiciously, “Are you looking at porn, Moz?”

     “Of course not, Neal! I wouldn’t intentionally corrode my extraordinarily complex mind with base, plebian smut,” he finished haughtily.

     “So……what then?” Neal pushed.

     The little man just continued to stare at him myopically.

     “Moz……just tell me!”

     “Well, okay, if you absolutely _must_ know, I’m perusing fiction.” Mozzie was definitely being vague.

     “C’mon, Moz, not to perpetrate a pun, but there’s more to this story than you’re telling me.” Neal raised his eyebrows in a come-hither expression. “Spill it!”

     Mozzie finally huffed a theatrical sigh and motioned Neal to sit beside him on the settee. In a patient tone, he began his explanation.

     “If one is inquisitive and tenacious, one can unearth some interesting and entertaining sites on the Internet’s vast super highway. One afternoon, I happened to be a bit bored, and, while surfing the Web, I came upon a plethora of online sites that support the efforts of amateur writers. These sites have a multitude of genres available for wanna-be Hemingways to post their fictions for others to read.

     Initially, I became engrossed in the ‘ _Espionage_ ’ arena. It was intriguing at first, but then all that cloak and dagger stuff just began to sound like a re-hash of what is currently in vogue on television or on the big screen at your local cinema. There are only so many fresh and innovative ways that a spy can ferret out clandestine information. So, I decided to investigate other avenues and have become addicted to the ‘ _Crime Fiction_ ’ ilk.”

     “Seriously, Moz? So, that’s what you’re so avidly reading right now?” Neal asked dubiously.

     “Don’t sneer and look down your nose, mon frère,” Mozzie said fiercely. “Some of these fictions are extremely clever—even brilliant. The plots are carefully thought-out and developed, and quite a fair number of authors know their way around a well-written page. You just have to sift through them a bit. I am not saying that all the efforts are insightful and ingenious. Actually, a multitude of authors are hacks and need to find the ‘ _spell check_ ’ button on their word processor, not to mention, learn how to use commas. However, I do follow a few of the more talented of the bunch, and I get an email alert whenever one of their stories is posted.” Mozzie turned to look at Neal with a fierce “don’t mock me” glare.

     Neal held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t be so touchy, Moz. If the fictions are keeping your attention, then I have no doubt that they are worthwhile. Why don’t you let me read one and see for myself?”

     For the next hour, Neal plowed through numerous chapters of a convoluted heist plot set at the Louvre. It was fairly good and kept his interest, but the plodding description of the preliminary tactical plans was a yawn. When he finished, Mozzie looked at him with raised eyebrows.

     “Well, it was entertaining, but not exactly accurate, you know.” Neal should have known that he couldn’t get away with that single comment. “The author had the schematics for that particular floor of the museum all wrong,” he clarified.

     So, for the next twenty minutes, he and Mozzie discussed all of the inconsistencies and plot holes in the story. Actually, Neal found himself having fun. So, they read another fictional entry and continued with their little pedantic game of one-upmanship. This entertaining flight-of-fancy exercise continued for several days, with both Neal and Mozzie agreeing that the panache of their own past escapades was hands-down more grand than anything that they had yet read.

     After one session of scornful snorting on Mozzie’s end, Neal suggested that Mozzie should try his own hand at penning an intriguing tale of astonishing criminal expertise and finesse.

     “Can you just go onto the site and submit your own efforts?” Neal asked curiously.

     “Well, first you have to sign up with a valid email address, and request an invitation to join whichever archive collection that you prefer,” Mozzie explained. “Then you have to agree to all the conditions of that site, which are usually pretty generic and loose. But, overall, it’s easy to do.

     Once you are accepted as a member, you can then post your entry. Most of these sites are managed overseas, and your work can be read by anyone with an Internet connection around the globe. The administrator keeps track of the number of hits and downloads that your story receives, and readers can give you kudos, if they really like your work. Other members of the site can post comments regarding your efforts that you can either respond to or ignore. As a reader, they can bookmark stories or designate them as a ‘favorite.’ It’s really a pretty easy process.” Mozzie had a wistful look in his eyes.

     “Mozzie, just think, you could inspire millions with the depths of knowledge in that shiny little dome of yours,” Neal dangled temptation in front of his friend. “You could be the next James Patterson.”

     That was enough incentive to motivate the little man. He beat a hasty exit from the loft and was incommunicado for the next three days. Neal had begun to worry when his phone went unanswered time after time, but then the newly minted author suddenly re-appeared one evening with a flash drive in hand. There were bags under his bloodshot eyes, and he had a manic air about him.

     “Okay, Neal, here it is,” Mozzie rambled excitedly as he stuck the little technological storage gizmo into a USB port on Neal’s laptop.

     “Moz….here’s what?” Neal found himself a bit baffled.

     “The story, Neal! The story! I’ve been working on it non-stop since we last talked. It’s only a little over 25,000 words, but it’s sufficient to spin the tale that I wanted to tell.”

     “Mozzie, have you even slept since you left here three days ago?” Neal now was a bit worried about his friend’s physical state as well as his mental status.

     “Yeah, in fits and spurts, but I was really on a roll. There were a few false starts before I finally got all of the pieces in play, but I eventually found my groove. I managed to attain this creative headspace, ya know, and my muse stayed with me for the duration. I want you to read this story. You can be my ‘beta!’”

     At Neal’s wary, puzzled look, Mozzie explained that a “beta” was a person who read a story and made sure that everything made sense, and offered advice to improve it, if necessary.

     “So,” Mozzie continued without waiting for Neal’s response, “after we critique the effort, I’ll post it. I have my pseudonym already in play—it’s ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel.’ Now read the story, Neal, and do not be kind because you don’t want to hurt my feelings. Just tell it like it is. I can take criticism!”

     “Your alter-ego is ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’?” Neal was beyond flabbergasted and made that “you’ve got to be kidding me” face.

     Mozzie looked chagrined at Neal’s lack of enthusiasm for the innovative nom de plume.

     “If your high school education was worth anything, my cynical young friend, I’m sure that, at some point, Emma Orczy’s adventure novel set during the Reign of Terror in France would have been required reading. The hero, Sir Percy Blakeney, was a wealthy, pseudo-narcissistic English baronet—a playboy by day. However, that is just his cover identity. He transforms into a formidable swordsman, imaginative planner, master of disguise and quick-thinking escape artist when it is necessary for him to rescue innocents from the guillotine. He represents the original hero with a secret identity that was the precursor for future heroes like Zorro and Bruce Wayne of Batman fame.” Mozzie now had a vindicated air about him.

     “Moz, when was the last time that you rescued anybody from having their head sliced off?” Neal asked gently.

     “It’s metaphorical, Neal! I’ve made up my mind and I’ve already registered under that pseud, so just deal with it!” With that being said, an agitated Mozzie collapsed onto Neal’s couch and was snoring almost immediately.

     Neal covered the little guy with a fleece throw and stared at his laptop. He knew that he had better read this effort that seemed to be a monumental labor involving blood, sweat, and tears. More than likely, when Moz woke up, there would be a quiz.

**********

     As Neal got into the fiction, he found that Mozzie really had a way with the written word. His story immediately drew you in with intrigue and suspense, and it moved along at a steady clip that kept you guessing and on edge. Interestingly, Neal found himself rooting for the anti-heroes to succeed in their audacious endeavor. That did not come as a complete surprise, because even though heavily disguised in hyperbole, Neal recognized himself and Mozzie as the rogue scoundrels in this account.

     “ _Trent Adams_ ” was the tall, dark Adonis with thick chestnut hair and a smile that turned the ladies into giddy, tongue-tied schoolgirls. They swooned at one glance from his ice blue eyes and were putty in his hands. His other esoteric attributes and talents were varied. He could paint, sculpt, and forge precious metals into works of art. He was a master at any physical endeavor from fencing to riding polo ponies.

     His partner in crime was “ _Morgan Daniels_ ,” a soft-spoken genius with 20/20 eyesight, a sculptured physique and a mane of blond hair atop his 6’2” frame. He was really the brains behind the robberies, cons, heists, and schemes that were alluded to in the story. The two men were inseparable and unstoppable when they carried out a daring caper.

     Neal knew this particular escapade quite well. It was a re-enactment of the time that he had stolen a countess’ jewels from her private yacht in Monaco in 2002. The words on the page described how “Trent” had engineered a chance meeting with the countess on the steps of the Monte Carlo Casino. They had drinks that quickly progressed to wooing her for the better part of a week. The middle-aged matron reveled in his attention, and he was an overnight guest aboard her private yacht. It was moored a bit offshore from the harbor, since it was simply too huge for any available berth. While she slept, the con artist had scoped out the place and located the wall safe in the solarium.

     The next day, while the lady visited a luxurious spa for a few hours of pampering, Trent donned scuba gear and surreptitiously swam out to the yacht, cracked the less than challenging safe, appropriated a cache of very valuable baubles, and swam back to shore. “Morgan” met him as he emerged from the water and took the hand-off of loot as well as the scuba gear. He provided Trent with slim, well-tailored slacks and a polo shirt. Without a minute to spare, the ersatz, handsome boy-toy met the countess as she walked from the salon with every tendril and curl of her new coif in place. Trent then drove them, at breakneck speed in his red Ferrari, down the winding roads of the beautiful coast to have dinner in a cozy little hideaway. Later that night, he begged off another night on the yacht, saying he wanted to try his hand at Baccarat at the casino. He promised to see her the next day.

     As soon as the lady set foot in the small launch that would ferry her off to her private mini cruise ship, the Ferrari was secreted in the back of a white box truck driven by Morgan. The two men raced all night towards Provence, France, where they rendezvoused with a talented jeweler, who, for a pre-arranged price, removed the precious stones from their mountings. Morgan also had a fence lined up to sell the loose gems. After everyone was paid off and the Ferrari returned to its unsuspecting owner’s garage, they left France with quite a tidy profit.

     Neal discovered that reading about his exploits was almost as much fun as having carried them out. Not many people were savvy to how much planning and foresight was necessary for a good robbery, heist, or con. Mozzie, with his gift of perfect recall, provided all of the details with a flourish. This little fiction gave credit where credit was due, and it was a proud testament to ingenuity and precision. The next Pulitzer Prize winner for literature slept through the night on Neal’s cramped little couch.

**********

     That evening, when Neal returned from his day job, Mozzie met him at the door.

     “Well, what did you think?”

     “Moz,” Neal began in earnest, “you really have a gift and a talent for story-telling. You capture the reader’s attention immediately, and proceed to take him on a wild ride of adventure and nail-biting suspense. Your grammar and punctuation are perfect with no dangling participles or split infinitives. In one word—it’s ‘ _great’_.’’

     Mozzie actually blushed at the accolades. “Well then, I guess we’ll post it and see what everyone else thinks.”

     “Wait a second, Moz,” Neal pleaded. “Isn’t this site supposed to be for fictional stories? Do you think it’s wise to put something that we actually did—a crime—out there on the Web?”

     “Neal,” Mozzie began patiently, “nobody is ever going to suspect that it isn’t a fictional story. It’s so bold that it appears to be the stuff that dreams are made of rather than real life.”

     Neal’s forehead was furrowed in concern. “Yeah, but what if somebody remembers that robbery, like the actual countess, and then tries to find out the author of the story who laid it out word for word?”

     Mozzie just sighed. “Neal, will you just chill! This is one little site among hundreds of similar sites on the Internet. What are the chances that somebody is going to read it and reconcile this story with an event that happened over a decade ago in Monaco? That countess has probably been married a few times since then to a duke or two, and now has a new collection of gaudy trinkets. And, finally, the statute of limitations on the crime expired years ago.”

     Neal finally gave in with some trepidation, and the deed was done. The following morning, a pounding on his door awakened him before his alarm went off at 6:30 AM. He opened it to an ebullient Mozzie, who was hopping from one foot to the other and had his laptop clutched to his chest.

     “I’m a sensation, Neal! I’ve been watching my story on the site during the night, and in less than twelve hours, I’ve had almost 800 hits, not to mention 75 kudos and just as many enthusiastic positive comments. Readers love it—well, they love ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel.’ But in reality, they love us, Neal!”

     Mozzie’s excitement was contagious, and Neal insisted on reading some of the comments that had been posted. As Mozzie had maintained, all of the remarks were flatteringly positive.

     “Are you going to respond to those people who said something?” Neal asked.

     “Well, it would be haughty and rude not to respond,” was Mozzie’s answer.

     “Please, please, Moz, keep things brief and general in nature. Don’t pontificate or go off on a rant. You definitely want to remain anonymous, so don’t give out any clues as to your identity.”

     “I will be the epitome of conciseness and courtesy, but I certainly do intend to be available to my public,” the new author proclaimed.

     Neal groaned and got ready for work.

**********

     Over the following days, it was hard not to be drawn into the exhilaration of watching Mozzie’s list of readers and admirers grow. The numbers climbed into the thousands, and avid sycophants urged “The Scarlet Pimpernel” to please write additional stories. They hungered for more of Trent and Morgan’s intriguing adventures.

     So, Mozzie obliged. A good author writes about what he knows. Thus, he penned the saga of the robbery at the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg when he and Neal managed to remove several delicate Faberge Eggs from the vast underground storage vault. His story was precise down to every last detail, including their access point inside a ventilation shaft, and their egress through a tunnel not found on any architectural plans. Mozzie prided himself on authenticity. Nobody could ever fault him for not being accurate.

     This story was a huge success as well, and Mozzie was now hooked on hubris. Other tales of successful larcenies across Europe unfolded. There was one about the Matisse that somehow walked out of the Louvre. Then followed the one about the beautiful natural pearls belonging to the wife of an Imperial Emperor of the Han Dynasty that disappeared from a museum in Beijing. Another very popular one discussed the fantastic Vinland Map that was discovered to be a forgery by Danish experts.

     As tale after tale found their way into words on the screen, Neal once again experienced the adrenalin high of a well-executed heist, and felt a vicarious thrill as he relived those glory days. They were his alleged “claims to fame” that the authorities suspected but could never prove. He had almost forgotten how really good he had been, and now found himself trying to wrestle the beast of temptation into submission!

 


	2. Peter Gets a Clue

 

     Mozzie continued at a steady pace with his “ _fiction_ ” writing hobby. However, thirty plus stories, and thousands of downloads later, Mozzie found himself tapped out. _What to do? What to do?_   When Neal asked if there were any ideas floating around in his head that had not yet taken shape, Mozzie acted a bit cagey and simply claimed that he was on a sabbatical from writing.

     Neal knew from experience that his friend was never any good at being furtive; there was a reason that Neal was always the front man. So, it was obvious to Neal that something was definitely brewing beneath the exterior, and he gave the little man a bit of time to come clean. When no confession was forthcoming, Neal did some clandestine snooping of his own and found that “The Scarlet Pimpernel” was still in business, but on a different Web site.

     There were new stories posted there, but these infamous tales defined crimes committed stateside—actually right here in Manhattan! And these crimes were Neal’s recent escapades, most definitely not beyond the statute of limitations. To add insult to injury, Mozzie had woven Peter, Diana, and Jones into the fabric of the fictions, and not always in glowing terms. When Mozzie finally showed himself one night in Neal’s loft, Neal took the opportunity to confront the little man.

     “Mozzie, this has to stop! ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’ needs to retire. This last story showcased the gala at the Italian Embassy that culminated with me rappelling down the walls of that Consulate. This stuff is hitting too close to home and it will not end well for me.”

     The author of the offending story held up placating hands. “Neal, Neal—you need to calm down. You’re as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. It will be okay. I never said anything about a music box. Trent Adams stole a jewel-encrusted Etruscan artifact and made a successful, clean, getaway. Alex was never mentioned in any of the other stories, so I certainly was not about to create her character now and let her gum up the works. Same goes for Keller. Both of them are a disgrace to a fellowship of noble thieves. I was employing artistic license, if you will.”

     “Moz..…please,” Neal all but whimpered in frustration. “I’m not telling you to stop writing your stories, but can’t you just make them more like ‘ _fiction_ ,’ rather than a synopsis of Neal Caffrey’s greatest hits?”

     “Now Neal, just like any good con, a good story comes from a place of truth,” the author said smugly.

     After that ominous declaration, Mozzie literally flounced out the door!

**********

     The stress was wearing Neal down. He was no longer able to sleep through the night without being awakened by visions of orange jumpsuits. His beloved Italian roast coffee was giving him acid reflux. He became as paranoid as Mozzie whenever a stranger walked from the elevator on the 21st floor of the FBI building. He had stopped reading the on-line stories because that just ratcheted up his anxiety. In a nutshell, Neal was a man waiting for the ax to fall, and, in real life, the “Scarlet Pimpernel” was not going to be able to save him from the guillotine.

     Like a self-fulfilling prophesy, bright and early one Monday morning, three detectives from the NYPD showed up at the White Collar office. They were there to see Peter, and ascended the flight of steps to Peter’s office at a brisk trot after Neal directed them. They remained in that office for some time, all crowded around Peter’s computer screen.

     After their departure, it wasn’t very long before two probies from archives appeared pushing hand trucks topped three high with boxes from storage. One by one, they carried the heavy cartons into the room adjacent to Peter’s office. Peter then appeared on the small balcony and called for Jones and Diana to bring their laptops and join him in the conference room. Neal instinctively started to rise from his seat, but Peter stopped him with a hard glare and growled, “Stay right where you are, Caffrey!” So that’s what Neal did, not even leaving his desk for lunch. By early afternoon, he found that he was continually rubbing the back of his neck with a quivering hand.

     Finally, Jones and Diana left for a rather late afternoon break, and Peter again scowled at Neal and gave him the two-fingered summons. To Neal, it sort of felt like being called to the principal’s office for a different kind of detention. He entered the room and gingerly sat down across from Peter, who had his hands tightly clenched on the top of the conference table. The tension evident in those hands belied the calm exterior that Peter sought to project.

     “Neal,” the agent began softly, “an NYPD precinct captain and his detectives visited today. They were here as a courtesy to give the FBI a heads-up about an arrest they made early this morning near Wall Street. According to their report, a man had to be rescued from the Hudson River after a failed attempt at base-jumping from a tall building’s penthouse patio. According to the police, he had robbed that apartment of some valuables and intended a sail-away escape, but unexpected cross-winds caught his parachute, leisurely wafted him out over the water, and eventually dunked him in.”

     Neal’s attention skewed off momentarily, thinking that this idiot probably hadn’t heeded Mozzie’s dire warning about checking the wind direction and velocity that morning, and calculating those factors into the trajectory. Even though Neal had not read the story, he was reasonably certain that Mozzie would have painstakingly added that caveat. Then his meandering mind was harshly wrenched back to reality because Peter was continuing to speak.

     “When the detectives questioned the perpetrator as to how he had come up with this asinine scheme, he showed them a Web site containing a fictional story that pretty much was a step-by-step blue-print for carrying out the heist. It would appear that the author, known by the alias, ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel,’ is very prolific. To date, there are forty-seven stories to his credit, with most taking place throughout Europe. Imagine my surprise when I began to read about those exploits and realized that they seemed to bear a shocking resemblance to your suspected past crimes.”

     Neal just gave Peter the benefit of a wide-eyed stare, so Peter cleared his throat and went on with his narrative.

     “Jones, Diana and myself spent quite some time with all of our archived information on your suspected activities during your years abroad, and guess what? It was pretty much a matching game—all neat and tidy, fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle.”

     When there was no response from the solemn man in front of him, the dam holding back Peter’s wrath burst. _“Are you out of your mind, Neal!!”_   The agent’s bellow reverberated off the office walls.

     Neal held up his hands trying to tamp down the explosion. “Now Peter, do you really see me as someone who would call himself ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’? Seriously, give me a little more credit than that, please.”

     Peter refused to be distracted. “Neal, just answer a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question without equivocation: Did you, or did you not, write these stories?”

     Neal looked the irate agent in the eye and answered quietly. “I didn’t write them, Peter.”

     Peter let out his breath in a whoosh. “Well, okay then, you didn’t write them. However, the person who did had exacting details and intimate knowledge of each and every crime. He had to be the orchestrator or an accomplice. We always suspected that you didn’t work alone all those years. So, I’m just going to take a stab in the dark here, and say it was Mozzie.”

     Neal felt like a bug pinned to an entomologist’s display board. Finally, he answered with a shrug, “I guess you’ll just have to ask him.”

     Neal suspected that Peter would not push him any further into a corner because he knew Neal was conflicted. He wouldn’t want to risk the possibility that Neal would lie to him to protect a friend.

     Taking a deep breath, Peter demanded that Neal call Mozzie and make sure that he came to Neal’s apartment that night at 8 PM sharp for a sit-down with Peter. “No excuses, or I’ll issue an arrest warrant for aiding and abetting,” he threatened ominously.

     As Neal tried to slink out of the conference room, Peter’s voice stopped him. “I do not appreciate being described as having squinty eyes, a weak chin, a receding hairline, and only being capable of an occasional leap of feeble insight.”

     Neal froze mid-step and said softly, “Yeah, I can see how that might be a bit insulting.…….and inaccurate,” he added hastily.

     The conman took a fortifying breath and valiantly tried to regain his equilibrium as he descended the stairs. He was pretty sure that he had managed to pull off the ‘joie de vivre’ Caffrey strut. Jones and Diana had already returned, so he had to run the gauntlet between their desks. Diana rewarded him with a wry little smirk. Yeah, the female agent was probably happy being described as a fearsome Valkyrie in Mozzie’s fictions. It certainly would stroke her ego. Jones’ expression, on the other hand, was almost hostile. No surprise there. Who would want to be defined as a technological geek with a lumbering Neanderthal’s demeanor?

**********

     Peter did not even have the courtesy to knock on Neal’s door that night. He just barged in and favored Mozzie with a narrow-eyed stare. Maybe Mozzie’s description of “squinty-eyed” wasn’t far off the mark. As the evening progressed, Neal was on tenterhooks. He watched the continued verbal sparring between the two that had his head swiveling back and forth as if he were watching a tennis match at Wimbledon.

     “You need to take down those stories, Mozzie!” Peter demanded.

     “If I was ‘The Scarlet Pimpernel’—and I’m not saying that I am—even if I was somehow able to remove the stories from the sites, they are still out there in the ether, Suit. People have already downloaded them to their personal computers. You just can’t put the genie back in the bottle.” Mozzie answered arrogantly.

     “How about if I arrest you for aiding and abetting, or arrest Neal, here, for committing crimes that you have laid out for us chapter and verse,” Peter countered.

     “Have you forgotten, Suit, that I have a law degree? You have no proof; you have no evidence. It is all hearsay and a grand jury would never indict on **_fictional_** stories. It’s like saying that the Brothers Grimm should be held responsible for every bad thing that happened to the characters in their fairy tales!” Mozzie was in diatribe mode.

     “Mozzie, those stories are a ‘How To’ primer for committing perfect crimes. Lawbreakers are reading them and taking notes. You’ve got to stop putting ideas in people’s heads!” Peter was beyond frustrated.

     The little conspiracy theorist was incensed. “Is ‘Big Brother’ really going to attempt to stifle freedom of expression, an inalienable right that harkens back to the time of the American Revolution of 1776? Do you remember Thomas Paine and his little pamphlet called ‘Common Sense?’ Would you arrest one of our fledgling country’s heroes for fomenting unrest and crimes against an oppressive Great Britain?”

     Peter tried a different tact. “If a connection is made down the road between Neal’s past crimes and those stories, it will negatively impact any chance he has of ever getting off that anklet. I can put everything back into archival storage, but I cannot guarantee that someone else will not link them in the future and cause trouble for your best friend. Is it really worth taking that chance, Mozzie?”

     For a minute, Mozzie actually looked guilty, and Peter took advantage of that. “Look, ‘Mr. Pimpernel,’ write one more story. Make it a stupendous one, but make sure that you kill off Trent Adams. Take him out in a blaze of glory, if you will, but make certain to end him. Then, if you want to continue to publish, try penning those bodice-ripper best sellers. Apparently, they are pretty popular—maybe something like that ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ thing. Think you could pull that off, Shakespeare?”

     “I’ll give that the amount of consideration that it warrants,” Mozzie sniped.

     Peter hoped that he had found a chink in Mozzie’s armor by playing the “best friend” card. “Remember, one more story to wrap things up with Trent Adams and end his proliferation of illegal antics. Oh, and while you’re at it, make sure to end that ‘Fabio’ guy as well!”

     “It’s _Morgan_. His name is _Morgan!_ ” Mozzie shot back as the door closed behind Peter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Fabio” was the name of an Italian male model who was very popular some years ago. If you Google his name, you can see how Mozzie perceives himself in his stories.


	3. Swan Song

 

      Two weeks after the heated discussion that took place in Neal’s loft, “The Scarlet Pimpernel” posted what was to be Trent Adams and Morgan Daniels’ swan song. It was ominously entitled:

 

“ _Will the Phoenix Arise From the Ashes_?”

     _Trent and Morgan had put in a long, but productive day. It was late afternoon as they climbed the rungs of the ladder that was their ascent from the bowels of Lower Manhattan. For the last week, they had been using the underground catacombs of the city to plot a point of covert entry into the Mellon Bank at 1 Wall Street. Dressed in yellow vests and hardhats, they attracted very little attention from the foot traffic, who were used to seeing city utility workers pop up and down from manholes like prairie dogs._

_Over the years, Morgan had procured and stockpiled IDs and uniforms from all walks of life, including municipal workers, security firms and even some law enforcement agencies. The press passes were the most fun, because then they could actually rub shoulders with the reporters who were writing about their daring exploits._

_Thorough as ever, both Trent and Morgan had done meticulous recon to establish exactly where they would access this banking institution. Posing as customers from time to time, they now knew the interior layout and the location of the cameras and sensors surrounding the cavernous vault. On the night of the actual break-in, after they entered through the floor, Morgan would electronically disable the cameras, and Trent would utilize special infrared goggles to see the sensor beams and block them with lead shields. Only then would he turn his attention to the vault. Using Morgan’s ingenious scanner that was programmed with an encryption key, the safe would open to him like Pandora’s Box._

_Surprisingly enough, the prize that they sought was not money, but rather a more sophisticated and lucrative reward for their hard work. Their precision-driven heist was to take place right before the big gala event at Sotheby’s Auction House on 5 th Avenue, three days from now. Due to the lackluster economy and the boredom of cautious collectors, the famous auction house was trying to stir up enthusiasm again by hosting an exhibit and discussion of some very historical and valuable pieces of jewelry. Included were Queen Mary’s strand of natural pearls that were eventually passed down to Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor, an emerald and diamond necklace created in 1959 for Brooke Astor by Bvlgari, and lastly, a 47 carat intense yellow diamond pendant which had belonged to the late Estee Lauder. The value of these pieces would probably top 15 million, if offered at auction today. The Mellon Bank would receive these treasures for safekeeping twenty-four hours before the event._

_With everything meticulously in place and set to go, the co-conspirators found that they had time on their hands. It was not surprising that Trent now discovered himself seated across from the FBI building, baseball cap in place, and hot dog in hand. From this vantage point, he couldn’t miss seeing the FBI agent that he had somehow glommed onto, if he left the building. If Agent Bubkiss departed by car, he would know that, too, since Trent would get an alert from the tracking device that he had planted weeks earlier amidst the vehicle’s undercarriage._

_Trent’s behavior was a puzzle to Morgan, and, if he was honest, it was a mystery to Trent as well. This particular agent was just one of many seeking to nail the fugitive’s ass to the wall, but he was much more persistent than all the others were. He was like a dog with a bone, tediously sifting through crime scenes for the smallest piece of telltale evidence or clue. Sometimes, Trent actually felt bad for tormenting the man, so he would send him little gifts, anonymously, of course, but he was sure Bubkiss knew that Trent was behind them. He hoped that the man did not think the con artist was taunting him; these little treats were just sent to keep Trent fresh in the agent’s mind. After all, there were other criminals on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, and he didn’t want to be forgotten._

_Suddenly, Trent’s phone vibrated softly in his pocket, and he knew Bubkiss was on the move. He immediately phoned Morgan, who came tooling around the corner in a Yellow cab. This was far from a normal taxi. Morgan had retrofitted the vehicle with a V8, 500-horse power engine from a 1969 Camaro. This baby was a true muscle car in disguise, and was his pride and joy. Trent jumped in the back, and Morgan began to tail Bupkiss’ mundane Ford Taurus at the cautious distance of a quarter mile._

_“Explain to me again why you insist on stalking this G-Man?” asked Morgan._

_“It’s kind of hard to put into words,” Trent began hesitantly. “I like to know everything about my opponent. The added bonus is the thrill I get when I see him take down some bad guys. He just looks so macho in that menacing stance with his gun in a two-fisted grip.”_

_Since Trent was in the back seat, he couldn’t see Morgan roll his eyes. “Do you realize just how disturbing that is on so many levels, my friend?”_

_When no answer was forthcoming, Morgan drove on in silence. They exited Manhattan via the Lincoln Tunnel, and traveled less than five miles to Secaucus, New Jersey. Closing the distance a bit, Trent and Morgan found themselves in an industrial area within a triangle made up of Interstate 495, New Jersey Route 3, and the New Jersey Turnpike. All around them were acres and acres of corrugated metal buildings, situated like soldiers in formation, with small paved lanes between them. The beeping from the tracker grew louder, so Trent and Morgan knew they were close. They parked behind a huge boxy structure that had to contain over 200,000 square footage of space, and, with binoculars in hand, they scanned the area beyond._

_Bupkiss’ car stood empty in front of yet another vast industrial edifice across from them. There was no sign of the man, who, most likely, had entered that building, if the open door was any indication. This little jaunt was perplexing and not Bupkiss’ normal behavior pattern. Trent and Morgan were intrigued, and would wait to see what he did when he exited._

_However, much to their shock and dismay, it was not Bupkiss who came through the door. In the magnified eyepieces, Trent saw, bigger than life, Malcolm Heller exit and firmly secure a padlock in place behind him. Heller was one evil dude—the devil incarnate—in Trent’s opinion. He was a psychopath who loved to maim, torture and murder just for the hell of it. Sure, he was brilliant and pulled off an occasional noteworthy heist or robbery, but he lacked the polished finesse of a gentleman criminal. Trent actually hated to have to share a place on that Most Wanted List with him. If he was leaving the building and Bupkiss was not, the scenario did not bode well for the agent. Had Heller lured the man here and then killed him?_

_After Heller left, Trent and Morgan quietly eased the taxi down the isolated lane behind the warehouse. They got out very cautiously and moved to the windows. Using a forearm, Trent softly wiped away what was probably years of built-up grime so that he could peer inside. What he beheld was like a punch in the gut. The warehouse was jam-packed, floor to ceiling, with every kind of munition, incendiary device and armament on the market today. Morgan, with eyes as big as saucers, silently pointed to some drones stacked on steel shelves like wine bottles in a rack. Trent’s eyes were just as wide because he was looking on the warehouse floor at three individuals trussed up in zip ties like turkeys on Thanksgiving._

_Bupkiss and his junior agents, Jonas and Harridan, were alive and breathing, but they certainly wouldn’t be for long. Nestled between cartons of ammunition was a square device with blinking lights that looked suspiciously like a bomb. Without a thought of their own safety, the two raced around to the front of the building. Trent picked the lock within fifteen seconds and they barreled through the door. Bubkiss stared at them with disbelieving eyes. The two would-be rescuers took quick note of the illuminated screen on the bomb that was counting backwards from two minutes, and hastily sliced through the plastic bindings on wrists and ankles, exhorting the three agents to ……. “Go! Go! Go!”_

_Bubkiss grabbed Trent’s arm and tried to pull him away as well. The con man looked his nemesis in the eye and said earnestly, “Let me stay and try to dismantle that thing before this whole area becomes an inferno.”_

_The federal agent looked torn, but reluctantly let go and hurried to the door behind his team. They fled as if trying to outrun a tsunami, when suddenly the percussion of a huge blast at their backs threw them to the ground. The explosions seemed to go on forever, with adjacent buildings catching fire and burning quickly out of control. Debris shot upward like lava from a belching volcano. The agents covered their heads as they hugged the ground that shook beneath them. Sadly, they were never joined by the two men who had freed them and saved their lives._

_In the distance, sirens could be heard. Eventually, fire stations from Manhattan joined those from New Jersey, who battled the conflagration for over eighteen hours. Bupkiss stood beside a fire marshal on the second day, just beyond ground zero, which was still smoldering with an occasional hot spot flaring up._

_“It will be days before we can sift through what’s left,” he informed the agent. “If people were inside, it will be impossible to find a trace of them. The intensity of the heat and the fire would have cremated a human body, and, with this whole area reduced to cinders, it would be an exercise in futility to try and find a piece of bone or tooth. If the two were still inside, they’re certainly dead.”_

_Bubkiss felt a hollowness inside his chest, and knew it was the pangs of mourning. He had always harbored a grudging respect for the con artist, and their game of hide and seek had been a challenge. And, if he was honest, it had been amusing and fun as well. Now the young man was gone forever. He would certainly miss Trent Adams, and he was awed by the selfless display of courage the criminal exhibited when, at the last minute, he had decided to redeem himself by becoming a hero. What a waste of intelligence and talent!_

_Finally pulling himself away from the devastating scene, the sorrowful agent vowed to himself as well as to a lost Trent Adams, “I swear that I will find and take down Malcom Heller and make him sorry he ever messed with us.”_

_The End_

_**********_

     Neal finished reading the story as Mozzie sat across from him guzzling his wine. He softly closed the laptop and said with raised eyebrows, “So we were incinerated, Moz? That’s really harsh.”

     Mozzie stood up and began putting on his jacket. “Yep, it’s like the man said, they won’t be able to find a trace of Trent and Morgan.”

   However, on his way out the door, the little man hesitated briefly and turned back to look at Neal. “And they won’t find any trace of my Yellow Cab, either,” he murmured softly with a wink of his eye.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was all just a bit of tongue-in-cheek fun. Thank you for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed it and perhaps experienced a giggle or two.


End file.
